That morning, gold leaks into
her window and pours like silk
across her aching eyelids. That morning,
she wakes and basks in the caress of
a fresh day, steps out into an age of
glint and green and throws the white sheets
of her arms towards the atmosphere.
That morning, she paints her darkness in
vivid colours across the sky, watches smoke
seep from chapped lips and swirl into mist,
banished to another subconscious;
it couldn't belong to her, not that morning.
That morning, her lungs proclaim to the open moors
and dare them to fill her with anything but air.
That morning, she tips seeds into the
yearning soil and breathes in crystal emptiness,
thanking this new world for all it has
given her and all it has taken away.